


Second Chances

by LaufeysonChild



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaufeysonChild/pseuds/LaufeysonChild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after Reichenbach, Sherlock finally decided to contact John, sending him a text reading simply "Good evening, John."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Chances

**Author's Note:**

> Another collaboration! (Co-author: omnomcookies.tumblr.com) Obviously Post-Reichenbach, slightly AU as Sherlock contacts John a mere six months after the fall. Still in alternating perspectives.

Sherlock sat in a darkened hotel room, the only light source came from his phone. He sat, fingers poised over the send button, three little words written across the bright little screen. He sat, clenching his teeth and squeezing his hands shut. He thought. And he hit send. And he waited.

\---

How many months had it been since Sherlock's death? Six months. Six months since he saw his best friend jump off of the roof of Bart's. Six months since he saw his best friend's life drain out onto the concrete pavement, his once brilliant eyes pale and unblinking. Lifeless. Six months since he had visited his best friend's grave. John knew the answer, he lived every day of his life with the cold, hard fact that his best mate in the whole world wasn't here anymore. He was dead. John felt his eyes begin to water and his heart begin to ache. This pain was unbearable. He didn't want this burden on him, but he couldn't help it. John cared for Sherlock and he would never stop missing his best mate. John looked down at his glass, swirling the contents, before downing the rest of it. The alcohol burned its way down his throat and he felt his mind begin to grow hazy. He didn't want to think about this anymore. John made his way towards the bottle, and was in the midst of pouring himself a second drink when his phone vibrated. John set down the bottle. Lestrade, he thought. He's probably checking in on me again. John looked at the screen, and he felt his heart stop as he read the name that was lit on his screen.

[1] New message from Sherlock Holmes.

John recalled vaguely that somewhere in the background was a cup slipping between his fingers and the sound of glass shattering.

\---

Sherlock lie sprawled out across the bed in the hotel room, immersed in complete blackness. He couldn't even see his hand in front of his face. He liked it that way. He couldn't stand to see himself, anyway. He knew it was what he had to do, but he hated what he did to John. He hated that he couldn't tell him and he hated that John thought he was dead. He had watched him, in the cemetery and around the flat, in restaurants and around the city. He wasn't the same John that he had known. He lagged. He limped. He didn't look up when he walked and he wasn't alert. It was extremely painful for Sherlock to watch. He felt dreadful, knowing he had caused this. He had sobbed so much over the past six months that he couldn't even shed a single tear any more. He just lie on the bed and waited for John to respond. He hoped John would, but he didn't expect him to. And if he did, he didn't expect it to be kind.

\---

John couldn't take his eyes off of the name that flickered so innocently on the screen of his phone. Sherlock Holmes. What did this mean? What kind of cruel world was this? What sort of sick mind had decided to do this to him? Hadn't it been enough, him suffering all these months, that now his best mate... his /dead/ best mate's name, would simply pop up on his phone six months later and taunt him just like that. As if his friend had been here all this time, as if he hadn't thrown himself off of a bloody building in front of John's very own eyes. John couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when he had fallen to his knees nor when he had gotten the small crimson cuts in the shape of crescents on his left hand. John let out a shaky breath, his fingers trembling uncontrollably, as he opened the text message from his dead friend. And in it were three simple words that completely changed his life.

\---

Sherlock obsessively checked and double checked his phone, making sure the volume was all the way up, making sure he hadn't missed anything. He had a million choices of words, and a million things to express in those words, but he had chosen "Good evening, John." That was it. Casual. As though nothing had happened. He thought and thought about what to say for the longest time, and was still completely dissatisfied with his choice. "Good evening, John? Good evening, John?! That's what I chose? That's what I bloody chose?!" He was pacing in the darkness, wishing he had his violin to calm him down. He clenched his fists and pounded himself on the head. "Stupid, what an idiot! Gone for so long and all I can choose to say is 'good evening, John.' What was I thinking?!" He shouted in aggravation and threw the nearest object to him across the room with extreme force. He'd have to pay for that, but he didn't care. He pulled at his hair and let his head fall. Three, tiny little words can carry such weight...

\---

"Good evening, John." For a good fifteen minutes, John just stared at his phone, his mind completely free of any emotion and thought. John read over the text once. Twice. Thrice. Then he read over it another twenty times just to be sure that his eyes weren't playing tricks on him before he accepted the fact that this text, that these three words were real. This text was not a fabrication of his alcohol-muddled mind. It was not an overactive imagination at work. It was real. Real. He let out a shaky laugh that bordered on hear hysteria. "Good evening, John." Jesus Christ. Bloody hell. Fuck. John couldn't deal with this right now. His mind was overloaded with possibilities, with the implications that this text brought down upon him. Was Sherlock... it couldn't be... John set his phone down, shakily got to his feet, walked over to his bed, and passed out completely.

\---

Sherlock stared out the window at the setting sun. He just paced and thought, and occasionally threw things about the room. He was a mess. He hadn't eaten, slept, or showered in at least two days. Those things slowed him down. He had just thought. He was contemplating his next move. He hadn't gotten a response from John, nor had he expected one. But he sure as hell wanted one. It wouldn't have mattered the content, he just wished for acknowledgement. He flopped back onto the bed and tucked his hands under his chin, closing his eyes. He had been considering just going to the flat and greeting John himself. John probably didn't believe the text, anyway. He had no basis to, and he had sufficient grounds not to. Sherlock opened his eyes and groaned. "Oh, what I'd give to know what he was thinking now!" Sherlock exclaimed. He took a deep, slow breath and made his decision. He would go to the flat, and he would face John himself. He showered and dressed and checked out of the hotel. He stood for a minute outside, checked his watch, and in the last fading streaks of sunlight, he gathered up all his strength and headed out for Baker Street.

\---

The first emotions John registered when he woke up were intense feelings of hollowness and regret. John's dreams had provided him no release from the real world, as images after images of his times together with Sherlock replayed themselves in his mind. Sherlock is dead, he tried to convince himself. He is dead. But then why, how had John gotten that text last night? John flew out of bed and ran over to his abandoned phone. "Good evening, John." The text was still there. John didn't know what to think. Here it was, a seemingly innocent text addressed to him from his dead best friend, on the screen of his phone. This text defied all that he didn't want to believe but had come to accept the past six months. John didn't dare hope, because if this simple text implied what it did, implied that Sherlock... that his best mate was still alive... John couldn't. He couldn't relive the past six months again if it turned out that this was, in fact, a cruel joke played by some sick-minded fool, and that everything he had suffered through had in fact been real. But John had to find out the truth and settle this once and for all. He /had/ to know. With a deep breath, John sent a reply back. "Who are you?"

\---

Sherlock was in the middle of a quite lengthy detour through a grassy park when he heard his text alert sound. His stomach lurched. He stopped and pulled out his phone. The screen had a little picture of an envelope and underneath it read the name John. He had gotten his response. He just stood, dazed, and stared down at his phone. He was hesitant to view the message. He had to, though. He selected the view now option, and the message was revealed. "Who are you?" it said, quite simply. Of course John wouldn't believe what he saw. Sherlock's mind raced with possible replies. He could just not reply, leaving John to believe it was a joke. He could tell him it was Mycroft, an all too believable possibility. But somehow, Sherlock couldn't bring him to. He had lied to John once, doing so again wasn't something he could do. Spelling out it out slowly, as if he'd never texted before, he typed out the word "Sherlock" and hit send.

\---

John wasn't sure what he wanted to see when he received the reply. He didn't know if wanted it to be Sherlock or if he wanted it to be someone else. Either way, John was afraid. Afraid of what the text would entail. Afraid of what it would mean to him. Afraid of what it implied about the past six months. John was frightened, more so than he ever had been in Afghanistan. He almost wished that he was there right this moment, the bullets and the explosions becoming increasingly preferable to this. In Afghanistan, all he had to worry about was survival. But here, here with this text, there was so much more. John let out a ragged breath, his finger hovering uncertainly over the button that would reveal the contents of this text. John closed his eyes and pressed. He slowly opened his eyes and let the word on the screen sink into his mind. "Sherlock." it said. "Sherlock." he repeated.

\---

Sherlock stared down at the screen, almost regretting his decision to send the message. He convinced himself that it was right, though. He couldn't lie to John, not anymore. He wondered what John would say next, if anything. He also wondered how John would react to actually seeing him. John would probably punch him in the face. In fact, Sherlock was hoping he would. He deserved at least that. Sherlock would even understand if John would never want to see him again. Sherlock winced at the thought of the pain he had caused his dear John. He thought of John, thinking Sherlock to be dead all this time, not knowing that what Sherlock had done, he had done for John. John, and no one else. The doctor was completely oblivious to that fact. He stomach did flips when he thought of this, and when he thought of the things he didn't get a chance to tell John. He never told John how he felt about him, but that was probably because he himself wasn't entirely positive. He'd never had someone in his life quite like John, nor had he ever felt for someone as he felt for him. Sherlock rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. He started back on his trek with renewed vigor and a less leisurely pace. He /had/ to see John now.

\---

John didn't give a bloody fuck about his therapist's recommendations to tone down his drinking. John needed to get out of this damned flat, get himself away from all of the reminders, away from his bloody phone, and far, far away from his life. John needed to get himself absolutely pissed. He figured that tonight would be a good night to drink himself to death, because if he didn't he was either going to break down completely or murder someone or some combination of the two. John pulled on his jacket, threw on his shoes, and took the stairs two at a time in his haste to get out the door and to the local bar. Fuck. Fuck Sherlock. Fuck his life. John was done with all of this, this hope and this misery, this state of not knowing and knowing, this was too much, all of this. John didn't know how to deal with it without driving himself absolutely insane.

\---

Sherlock was nearly sprinting by the time he was a street away from the flat. His mind and heart were racing. He didn't care about his reaction, he didn't care if John hugged him or if he shot him on the spot. He just had to see John. He raced up the steps, through the door, and flew up the stairs. "John!" he yelled as he slowed to a stop, half expecting to have been met by a cricket bat to the face. But there was nothing. No response. "John!" he shouted, louder this time. He looked around, checked every room and ever corner where John could be, but he was nowhere. He pulled out his phone to send a text. "John?" it said. He hit send, and heard John's phone go off somewhere in the flat. He sent another text, blank this time, and followed the sound back to John's chair. He had left his phone. "Brilliant," Sherlock said in an exasperated tone. He flopped down onto his own chair and attempted to catch his breath. "I'll just have to wait for him." After a few minutes, or, in Sherlock's mind, hours, of waiting, he grew restless. He went over to Mrs. Hudson's and knocked furiously at the door until she appeared, half-asleep. "Sherlock, it's late, what are you...Sherlock?!" she said, the sight not registering right away. "Mrs. Hudson, I need you to tell me where John has gone off to," Sherlock said, lowering himself to meet her eye gaze. "Sherlock, you're alive!" she said. Sherlock groaned. "Yes, yes, ta da! I'm here. Not dead. I'll explain later. Tell me where he's gone" Sherlock said, his voice increasingly frantic. "How...you were dead..." she said. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouted. "I don't know," she said, finally answering his question. "I've been asleep. I don't know where he's gone to. Sorry, Sherlock."

\---

John didn't know when he had left the pub and arrived at Sherlock's grave. He didn't know why he was there or how he had gotten there. But here he was. John stood in front of the grave, examining the words carved into the stone, staring for what felt like an eternity, before he sat down next to the tombstone with a bottle of scotch in his right hand. John closed his eyes and rested his head against the cool stone, listening to the forlorn sounds of rustling leaves. John let out a deep breath. "Sherlock." John muttered to the night sky. "Sherlock, you bloody idiot. I don't know if you will ever be able to understand what I've been through these past few months. It's been hell. Just absolute hell." John choked out a sob. "Everyday of my life... spent thinking about you... hoping you were alive... believing you were dead..." he shuddered. "And now this... whatever this is... I just don't know what to think, Sherlock... What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to act?" John wished that someone would answer his questions and settle all of his doubts and concerns, but the only he received was the immeasurable silence of the stars in the night sky.

\---

Sherlock stood outside the flat, frantically pacing, debating which way to go, where to search for John, wondering where on Earth he could have gone. He suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. "Oh, idiot!" he groaned. "You are Sherlock Holmes, world's greatest detective! Surely finding a small army doctor will prove no challenge!" He closed his eyes and remembered the details. John's phone had been left in his chair. He had remembered having seen a broken tumbler on the floor near the window and sever empty alcohol bottles. Alcoholism, hardly a surprising outcome. Of course, his therapist would have warned against it, but John wasn't ever really one to heed her advice. John's chair was bumped slightly out of place, he was tipsy, off-balance. The door was left unlocked and the flat was in disarray. John was distraught, and leaving in a hurry. Forgot his phone? Unlikely. He left it on purpose. Trying to get away from it, seeking release. With no alcohol in the flat, he headed for a pub. In a hurry, as well, the nearest being "exactly naught point six miles away," Sherlock said aloud, "not too far a walk." But walk he would not. Sherlock broke into an outright sprint for the pub. He reached it in record time, and burst through the door. He looked around and saw that the pub had been closing, the only person remaining was the bartender. "You!" he said, pointing at the man and walking up to him. "Short. Blond. Distraught. Male. Tan. Soldier. Sound familiar?" Sherlock asked, quickly and pointedly. "Uhm..." the bartender said, looking up, trying to recall. "Quickly!" Sherlock shouted. The man's eyes widened. "Yeah. yeah, he sat right over there, chatted me ear off for quite a bit, going off about some bloke called Sherlock. He said something about going to visit him, took a bottle with him, left a couple fivers on the counter and hobbled off. That was half an hour ago." Sherlock gave a curt nod and left the pub. He stood outside. "Going to visit Sherlock..." he repeated. "The cemetery!" he exclaimed. Without stopping for a breather, Sherlock sprinted off in the direction of the graveyard where he and been 'buried.' He skidded to a stop when he realized there was no way he'd make good time on foot. He hailed a cab, and the whole ride he went over in his head what he might say, what he could say, to John. He tried to analyze what he'd been feeling, put a name to it. The whole ride over, he silently calculated.

\---

John didn't understand how he had reduced himself to this. He was cold, he had a terrible pounding in his head, and worse of all, he was heaving his life out on the grass next to his friend's grave. Sherlock would be so ashamed to see him like this, in such a pitiful and miserable state, alive but not really living. What would Sherlock say if he saw his army doctor like this? When John had steadied himself enough to stop vomiting, he laid down on the ground and looked up into the dark night sky. John reached out towards a lonely star and closed his fist around it. How he envied this star's position in the world, where it was observing everything but suffering nothing. John wished that he could be away from all of this madness. But he knew, sooner or later, he would have to confront the truth. And the truth was that Sherlock was alive. His best mate was /alive/. He hadn't jumped to his death like John and the rest of the world thought he had. John wasn't sure how he would react when he saw Sherlock, and John was certain that they would meet. However as he dwelled on this thought, John felt a nagging thought in the back of his head and a sharp pang of betrayal and hurt seared through his heart. Why hadn't Sherlock told him that he was alive? Why did Sherlock wait this long to let him know? John closed his eyes as one crucial question rang through his mind. Why didn't Sherlock trust him?

\---

Sherlock's thoughts raced the closer he got to the graveyard. He was so worried John would hate him, and he had every right to after what Sherlock had done to him. Sherlock stopped thinking about what he was going to say and decided to just let himself speak. The cab pulled up to the entrance to the cemetery and Sherlock instructed the cabby to wait. He walked through the gateway and quickly and expertly navigated straight to his own grave site. A morbid thought, really, having to go to your own grave to locate your friend. As soon as John's prone form came into view, Sherlock rushed over. He found John lying near a puddle of his own sick with an empty scotch bottle very near. It was a dreadful feeling, seeing his only friend like this, knowing that he and solely he was the one to have caused such destruction. He hated that John had no idea the fall was for him, but there was no time to explain that now. Sherlock knelt down beside John, running his hand down the side of his face. He was cold. "John..." Sherlock whispered. He flipped off his jacket and wrapped it around the smaller man before picking him up and carrying him through the graveyard and out to the cab. He didn't know if John was awake, asleep, or unconscious. He didn't know if the doctor knew who was carrying him or if he even knew where he was. He set John down in the cab and scooted up beside him. "221B Baker Street," he said softly, careful not to disturb the one beside him. He wrapped his arms around John in an attempt to warm him up. He didn't care whether John was coherent or not, he was going to make sure he was alright before he handled anything else.

\---

Through his drowsiness, John could feel himself moving. A pair of warm arms were gently cradled around him and a familiar voice was whispering his name softly in the distance. This simple embrace had accomplished for John what his therapist and many alcoholic drinks could not, and it was because of that fact that John did not put up any sort of protest. For the first time in six months, John Hamish Watson felt completely and utterly at peace. Where he was, there was no death, no lies, no worries, no regrets, and no sorrow. There were no questions of what he might have done differently or fears of whether he had done something wrong. Where John was, he was free.

\---

When the cab pulled up to the flat, Sherlock ran out ahead and opened the door. He went back and picked up Watson once more. He carried him up the stairs and into his bedroom. Sherlock gently placed John on his bed. He took off John's shoes. He removed his own coat from the man and replaced it with the bedsheets. Sherlock ran his hand down the side of John's face. His deep breathing pattern was indicative of sleep, and Sherlock imagined he would be exhausted. Sherlock himself wasn't particularly tired. He sat on the edge of the bed and just looked at John. He sat, and thought to himself how perfect John was to him. He was everything to Sherlock. He was grounding, he was thought-provoking, he was taming and he was exciting. He was love. Sherlock loved him, something he never thought he'd do for anyone, but it was true. John meant so much to him, and Sherlock had hurt him. Sherlock suppressed a sob and took a deep breath. "Sleep well, John," he whispered before he went into the living room to sit in his chair and wait for morning. He ended up falling asleep there.

\---

John woke up feeling like he was missing something very important to him. He sat upright, pushing his sheets aside as he looked around his disorganized room. His shoes were the only thing out of place in this mess, and those were lying neatly on the floor at the end of his bed. John tried to remember what he had done the previous night and the last thing he could recall doing was passing out on the ground next to Sherlock's grave. He always ended up there. John remembered the arms and the moving though. That meant that someone had carried him here, and John had a very good idea of who that person might have been. John got out of bed and carefully made his way down the stairs, ensuring every step was of the utmost silence. Three-fourths of the way down, one of the boards creaked, and John nearly fled back up the stairs and into his room at the noise. This was bloody ridiculous. John had nothing to be afraid of. Just go down, he told himself. You need to check. You need to make sure it is who you think it is. And if it is who you think it is, you need to give him a goddamn piece of your mind. John let out a small sigh, nodded to himself, and made his way down the rest of the stairs, mindless of the noise he was making. He stomped towards the living room, channeling six months of misery (and now anger) into every step he took. It was easier that way, to be angry. John was preparing to give a shout when he saw him, when he saw Sherlock, alive, sleeping quietly in the chair at the corner of the room. Almost immediately, John's anger faded away. Here he was, his best mate whom he thought had died six months ago, in the flesh, his breathing soft. John's eyes ran over Sherlock's body and the doctor in him performed a quick diagnosis. Sherlock had an unhealthy pallor to his skin and looked severely emaciated. Dark circles lined the bottom of his eyes, signaling that Sherlock had not been sleeping, if at all. John's heart almost broke at the sight of his clearly distressed friend, and he forgot about everything that had transpired the past six months. John rushed over to his friend and knelt down on the floor. His hand flew to Sherlock's forehead to make sure that he wasn't feverish. All John wanted, all that he cared about at this very moment, was making sure that Sherlock was okay.

\---

Sherlock was in the middle of a dream. No, that's not right. It was a nightmare. It was essentially just a recollection of all the times he had seen John, after the incident. After his 'death.' His first memory was of seeing John at his fresh grave. John had said that no one would ever convince him that Sherlock had told him a lie. That was painful to hear. He really wished John would have believed what he said, believed that he was a liar and that Moriarty was a fake. He wouldn't be here if John had believed him. But he hadn't. John would visit the grave often within the first month, but would come more infrequently as time passed. Sherlock remembered having watched John outside the flat. He didn't go out much, his destinations were limited to the surgery, his therapist, and the cemetery. Every few weeks he would go to the shops for food. There were times, though, that John looked positively haggard. He wouldn't watch where he was going. He was lethargic in his movements and didn't seem to want to do anything. What hurt Sherlock the most, though, were the times he would see John sat in front of the tombstone, just talking. Holding out a conversation as though Sherlock had been there. He so desired to go over to John, to talk to him, to tell him that everything was going to be okay, that he had died for him. He once considered going over there, one night when John seemed a bit delusional and gullible, and claiming himself to be a ghost. Just to be able to talk to John. Just to tell him everything he had wanted to, had wished he could. He decided not to, though. While his mind flicked through all the horrible memories, Sherlock subconsciously heard loud pounding noises. Each sound brought him one more step out of his dream state and nudged him closer to reality. The noises stopped. He was nearly awake by then. Suddenly he felt a hand on his forehead, and he opened his eyes to see John looking him up and down, almost studying him.

\---

Sherlock's eyes suddenly flickered open, and John nearly fell back from the shock it gave him. He quickly withdrew his hand and averted his eyes. He felt a blush creep its way up his cheeks. "I... uh..." Stupid John. What are you doing? He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh, yes, well, you're okay. No fever. Just emaciated and a little dehydrated. Food and water will do you some good." John nearly smacked himself on the head at this. What was he doing? First time in six months since he saw his friend (whom he thought had been dead all that time), and he was giving the man a check-up at their reunion! John spared a glance at Sherlock, but his face gave nothing away. Even as sickly as he looked, John couldn't help but admire Sherlock's face. The way his cheekbones curved, the perfect shape his pink lips were... And God, his eyes. John had never seen anything like them. They were beautiful and unearthly. John was certain that if angels existed, that this was what they looked like. John's eyes widened when he realized what he had been thinking and doing for the past several minutes. There was no way Sherlock wouldn't know what had just run through John's mind. He went red and turned away from Sherlock. Bloody hell John, he must think that you are an absolute creep. Six months and you do this? Jesus Christ. Aren't you supposed to be mad at the man? You're going mental, aren't you? These past six months have really done you in, haven't they? John turned away from Sherlock and coughed awkwardly. “We're out of milk, I'll just...” John's eyes darted around nervously for his black coat and shoes.

\---

John was acting really strange, but Sherlock in no way blamed him. He had every right to act as psychotic as he wanted to. John had stared at Sherlock for a least a good minute, and Sherlock had wondered what had been going through his head at that moment. He watched as John searched for his coat and shoes, going out to get milk, apparently. Always with him and milk. Sherlock had not expected John to be checking on him. He honestly expected John to be yelling at him, hitting him, kicking him out and never wanting to see him again. This was a welcome outcome. John told Sherlock that food and water would do him some good. He didn't believe that. Sherlock felt that the only thing that would do him good would be to talk to John. He wanted to tell him everything. To apologize and beg for forgiveness. He resolved to follow him and do exactly that, he would just talk. Unrestrained, unedited, and with no reservations. "John, wait," as he stood up out of his chair. He made to head towards John, but suddenly became very aware of how weak his body had become. He took a step and stumbled, trying but failing to catch himself. he fell face-first onto the floor, barely holding on to consciousness.

\---

John's plans of retreat flew out the window the moment he saw Sherlock's attempt to walk towards him turn into a deadly nosedive to the ground. "Sherlock!" John's legs moved on their own accord, and before he knew it, he was at his friend's side. John turned him over and gently cradled Sherlock's head in his lap. "Sherlock! Are you okay?" He leaned down towards Sherlock's chest. Shallow breathing. Sherlock's eyes fluttered, and John could tell he was trying hard to stay conscious. "Follow my finger." John ordered, moving his finger back and forth. Sherlock obliged. No concussion, John determined, but to be safe, he had to make sure Sherlock stayed awake. He let out a deep breath. "Sherlock." John whispered. "Stay with me." Now that John gotten his examination aside, he was horrified. Sherlock's body was on the verge of shutting down, having been pushed past the point of exhaustion. Sherlock had clearly been starving himself of both food and rest. How... why had Sherlock pushed himself to this point? Sherlock's eyes began to drift shut and John immediately reacted. "Sherlock!" he shouted, snapping his fingers in front of his friend's face, jolting Sherlock's eyes open. "Don't fall asleep on me, you bloody idiot!"

\---

Sherlock could barely sense anything that was going on around him. He had felt fine until he tried to stand up, which is when everything blindsided him and his actions took their toll. Sherlock had spent so much of the last six months in a deep depression, thinking only about John and the pain he had caused that he sorely neglected the essential means to survive. He seldom slept and ate only when he was forced to, when he was too weak to even think. At the time, it didn't seem to be too much of a problem. Spurred on by his own anxiety, Sherlock must not have noticed his body reacting, until now. He could feel a dull pain in his nose and his head. He could feel warmth around his head. He heard John's voice, straining to shell words out of the nonsensical sounds. Sherlock could feel darkness closing in on him, and he tried with all his strength to push it aside. When he could see, he stared up at a blurry image of John. He focused on that and used it as a tool to keep himself awake. He couldn't let his body shut down. He had to hold on. "Sherlock!" he had heard and felt snapping in front of his face. "Don't fall asleep on me, you bloody idiot!" John shouted. That brought Sherlock a bit farther out of the grip of the suffocating darkness. He saw a clearer image of John in front of him. He looked frantic and furious and lost all at once. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to pull John close, to hold him and to apologize, but all he could manage was a faint mumble of the word "John..."

\---

John heard Sherlock weakly mumble his name. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" John cried, anxiety tinting the edges of his voice. John's eyebrows scrunched together as he searched his friend's face for signs of consciousness. "How could you do this to yourself?" John gently lifted Sherlock up and off the ground and placed him softly on the couch. Sherlock's eyes were shutting again. "Sherlock. Sherlock, do you hear me?"

\---

Sherlock could now barely hold on. He could hear some semblance of John's voice, but it was distant and quiet. He could no longer see. The darkness was quickly growing. His eyes were shut, and he felt that all he could do now was sleep. Sleep and hope that everything would turn out alright. He let out a deep breath and fell straight into a dream state. He could only see images of John. All his memories of him, good and bad, flooded over him in one, fluid stream. He could no longer feel reality around him at all. He was breathing, but barely.

\---

John watched as Sherlock's eyes closed shut and his breathing slowly even out. He had fallen asleep. John adjusted Sherlock's body into a more comfortable position before taking his place on the floor next to Sherlock. He let out a breathy chuckle and shook his head. The things this man made him feel. It seemed John could never stay angry at his friend for very long, as the man always warranted John's worry and concern and that was something John couldn't ignore. John was still afraid of the hit that Sherlock's head had taken from the floor, and decided he would wake his friend up in an hour or two, just to make sure that he was okay. But for now, John was content with watching his friend sleep.

\---

Sherlock found himself in an incredible state of lucidity. He knew he was dreaming, but he was fully aware. He took himself through all his good memories of John. He remembered all the cases they'd solved together, the few sleepless nights they spent working out little facts, or sometimes just up talking. They were laughing. It had been ages since Sherlock had seen John laugh. He missed that. He loved the way John's face lit up when he smiled or laughed. It made the man seem, unbelievably, more inviting. Sherlock thought about the way his heart would flutter when he was around John. He found it disturbing at first, but had grown to like the way John made him feel. He thought of the good memories, and then was hit with the one. The fall. He remembered being up on the rooftop. He remembered that sense of dread as he realized what he had to do. He remembered looking down at John, asking him to go back to where he was. He remembered his desperate attempt to get John to believe that everything was a lie. He wanted John to hate him in that moment, to save him the pain of what was to come. He remembered choking out those two horrible words he didn't ever want to hear say: "Goodbye, John." He remembered the tears streaming down his cheeks as he pitched forward. Falling. Sherlock was falling, headed straight for the pavement. He hit it and jerked awake, gasping and nearly tumbling off the couch.

\---

John had left the room to make some tea for the both of them and had only been gone for a few minutes. However, when he returned to the side of his friend with two cups of tea, John came to regret that decision. Sherlock looked as if he was in terrible distress wherever he was in that mind of his. His features were knit tightly together, his body occasionally twisting and turning, and he was mumbling incoherent words. John quickly set the cups aside and shook his friend's shoulder. "Sherlock!" he called. Sherlock's movements did not cease, and the expression on his face only increased in intensity. John's heart tightened with worry for his friend. John wasn't the only one who had it rough, it would appear. What John would give to know what was going on in Sherlock's mind, to see what was causing his friend so much agony. "Sherlock." John tried again, taking his friend's hand in his, if only to provide him some sort of comfort. Sherlock's body jerked awake, his eyes shooting open, his hand flying out of John's, and his breaths short and rapid. Sherlock's eyes darted around, half-aware and clearly frightened. John had never seen his friend in such a disgruntled state, and it pained his heart to see Sherlock like so. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, his left hand rubbing Sherlock's back soothingly, and he whispered. "Hey, hey, don't worry. I'm here, Sherlock. I'm here."

\---

Sherlock was confused for a brief moment, not knowing where he was. The sound of John's voice was enough to put the pieces together, though. He was in the flat. John's arms were wrapped around him and John was...John was comforting him? That can't be right. He felt John rubbing his back and assuring him that he was there, not to worry. John was comforting him. Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around John and squeezed his eyes shut, crying for the first time in weeks. His breathing was heavy. "John, oh, John, please, please forgive me." Sherlock felt the words pouring out of his mouth, not graceful and gentle as he'd wanted them to be, but hurried and desperate.

\---

John felt Sherlock's arms wrap tightly around his back, pulling John in closer than he expected. Sherlock's chest was heaving heavily under his arms. He felt a sort of dampness seep its way through his jumper. John blinked, uncertain if he was pinpointing the sensation correctly. Were those tears? Was Sherlock... crying? "John, oh, John, please, please forgive me." The words poured out from his friend's mouth. John pulled back slightly to look at his friend. Tears were rolling down Sherlock's face, sorrow and regret painted deep within his ethereal eyes. John's fingers instinctively reached out, catching the tears on Sherlock's face. John's heart lurched uncontrollably. Even though the past six months had been horrid for John, he at least had the comfort of his friends and the release of alcohol. But with Sherlock... John knew that for Sherlock, it had to have been harder. He had been alone, with no one to look after him, with no one to tell him that everything was going to be okay. Even if John was mad at Sherlock for putting him through the hell he had been through the past six months, John knew that in his heart, he had already forgiven Sherlock. John pulled Sherlock back into another tight embrace. "Of course, I forgive you, you bloody idiot." John whispered. "Just don't do that ever again. I mean it."

\---

This was certainly not the reaction Sherlock expected from himself. He felt like a child. John cradled him and whispered to him that he was forgiven. The words were intoxicating. John, after everything, after the absolute hell Sherlock had put him through, had forgiven him. He sobbed uncontrollably. He heaved, threatening to be sick had he anything in his stomach. He breathed deeply and slowly, attempting to calm himself down. John's calmness helped him. It was reassuring and comforting. Sherlock breathed and his sobbing steadily ceased. He pulled back to look at John. "I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry," he said, feeling like he couldn't apologize enough. "I have so much to explain to you," his voice was weak and strained, "so much to say. So much to tell you that I didn't get the chance to before. Things I hadn't worked out until too late." He shook his head and looked down, breathing deeply and crying a bit harder. "I'm sorry..." he muttered.

\---

John patted Sherlock's back comfortingly before standing up. "I know you must have had a reason to do what you did. It wasn't easy for me, Sherlock. Those six months... they were the worst six months of my life. Every day was a living hell for me. But..." John closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. He looked straight into Sherlock's eyes. "But... I forgive you. I'm just... I'm just happy you're alive Sherlock. Really." John looked down at his toes and than back at Sherlock again, a small smile playing on his lips. "Though I do expect you'll make it up to me?"

\---

Sherlock whimpered slightly at the break of contact. Hearing that John forgave him was bliss and pain at the same time. While he had wanted for John to forgive him, he felt that he needed to be scolded and yelled at. He was washed over with relief, though. "Of course I'll make it up to you," Sherlock said, standing up excitedly only to get dizzy and fall back down onto the couch. His face contorted in pain and he groaned, holding his head in his hands. "In any way you see fit," he strained to say, "anything you want," he looked up at John, "I will do. But please, allow me to explain. Let me say what I need to say."

\---

For John, it was a battle between listening to Sherlock's explanation or giving him his much needed rest. Even though John was eager to hear Sherlock's reasons, his health was John's primary concern. The explanations could always wait. He had made his decision, only to renege on it seconds later by making the fatal mistake of looking at Sherlock. His friend was anxious to speak to him, in spite of his very clear headache and exhaustion. John stared at Sherlock, whose desperate expression was becoming more and more pronounced as the seconds went by. John cracked and let out a resigned sigh. "Okay, Sherlock." He sat down next to his friend and swallowed. "Though I'll have you know, as your doctor, I think we should do this later. You need your rest." John muttered, even though he knew that was precisely what Sherlock would not do. Sherlock wouldn't rest until he told John whatever it was he wanted to tell John.

\---

Sherlock was being told that his explanation could wait, but it really couldn't. He had to say everything that was on his mind. He knew it wasn't going to be as well-worded as he might have liked, but he had to get the jumbled mess inside his head out. "John, what I did, six months ago, the fall, my death, I know it may not make sense but I did it for you. Moriarty, he was real. He was going to kill you if his men didn't see me jump. He wanted me to commit suicide, to tie a pretty little bow around his perfect story. I was only thinking of you, the entire time. All the time, you. It's all I ever think about. These past six months, all the pain I have caused you, it's been haunting me. It was so hard, I could hardly handle it. I tried to convince you that I had lied, to save you all this pain, but you wouldn't believe me. There was so much that came flooding over me in that moment of free fall. So much that I didn't understand, but had six months to work out. There was so much I realized that I never got a chance to tell you." Sherlock took a deep breath, having said everything almost too fast for him to think. "I love you. More than anything. You have given me so much in my life, brought so much to it and I hurt you. I hurt you more than I can bear to think. I'm so sorry I didn't explain it to you, but I couldn't. I had to do what I did to save your life. And when it comes down to it, should I ever need to, I would die for you, John. For real, if I had to."

\---

John closed his eyes, resting his forehead delicately against Sherlock's. All that Sherlock had done, he had done for John, and John knew, no he understood quite clearly, that Sherlock had never meant to hurt him and that he had only done it with good intentions. And for that, John couldn't find fault with him, because it was what John would have done had the roles been reversed. If it were John in the same position, if Sherlock's life had been in danger and there was something that he could do about it, John wouldn't hesitate to trade his life in a heartbeat for Sherlock's. "Sherlock, I forgive you and I believe you. Don't ever think otherwise, even if for a second. You know you will always have my faith, and you most certainly will always have my love." John smiled, placing a soft kiss on Sherlock's forehead. "Sherlock Holmes, I love you."

\---

Everything was in place, perfectly fit, and for both John and Sherlock, all was right in the world once again.


End file.
